II
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: Set a few months before the 74th Games. Outlines the various stages of life and social climate in District 2 through Cato and those closest to him.
1. Part One

A/N: 1) I like Careers. I don't like when they're sugarcoated to conform to our cultural moral standards. I tried my best not to sugar coat anything, so these characters might not be super likable, fair warning.  
_**2) This is going to seem like an OFC romance by the end of the first chapter. It's not. Any plot directions used are strictly for the sake of exploring how the people in 2 are {or are not} socialized to relate to/love other human beings  
**_  
Characters: Cato, Echo (Cato's mother), Cason (Cato's father), Caemon (Cato's brother), Rhagia (Caemon's wife), Ravine (head trainer of the (head trainer for the high ranking trainees at two's 'career academy'), Clove, (Cato's younger sisters will be around at some point but I haven't named them yet, so)

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**II  
**Part One

_We are the youth of the nation  
__Who's to blame for the lives that tragedies claim  
__No matter what you say, it doesn't take away the pain  
__That I feel inside, I'm tired of all the lies  
__Don't nobody know why, it's the blind leading the blind  
__There's got to be more to life than this  
__There's got to be more to everything I thought exists_

At forty-six, Echo Travertine is far too old to work in the quarry. Her wrinkled, leathery hands are good at scrubbing the blood out of the medical ward's sheets. She doesn't even feel the burn of the scalding hot water. No one can tell if her hands are raw pink from the steam, the scrubbing or just the blood. No one really cares. There is always so much blood in District 2, they're all used to it by now. Especially here in the training center. The trainees are forever hacking and slicing away at each other. Some of District 2's children die before they even stand a reaping. They are cut down by each other. Only a privileged few compete in the actual Games, but living in 2 is a daily competition in and of itself.

The suspicion and aggression often follows the citizens beyond their training years. Everyone in 2 carries a knife. Everyone knows how to use one. And most are vigilantly on the lookout for an opportunity to use it. The peacekeepers have to clean up at least one homicide a month. Half the time, it's their own uniforms they're carrying away.

So when Cato's brother is pushed to his death from the scaffolding in a quarry, no one is very surprised. But there are plenty of other emotions. Anger. Wrath. Vengeance. Cato himself vows to find the man responsible and personally stab him with the dullest machete he can find. It never occurs to him to mourn. He cannot understand death as tragic. He comprehends no loss. Death in District 2 is just a fact of life. Either there is air in his own lungs or there isn't, that's really all he can worry about. Anything else is a distraction from training. And distractions would mean failure in the arena.

Even when a rockslide took his father's life two years before he refused to let it unhinge him. Buried his emotions deep and covered them with longer hours at the training center. He had felt some regret then. That his father would never see him compete in the Games. But life went on. It wasn't his father who had paid for his training. It wasn't his father who had bought his bread. His protein drinks and fiber bars. His hot water. His clothes. Even his room at the training center had all been earned by Cato's own blood and sweat. The stronger he got, the higher he rose on the Training Center depth chart, the more rewards the Capitol gave him. He was completely independent of his parents, of his family. He didn't need them. He needed only himself and the trust of the Capitol. So what was he losing really, when his father was buried under the rubble of the quarry? He'd asked himself a few times but nothing ever came to mind.

The first time he sees loss, real loss, is in his mother. Echo sobbed for days when Cason died. He had been her entire life since the time she was nineteen. In a District where children are raised to cast off familial dependence and suspicion is in every neighbor's glance, your marriage is what keeps you alive. Your husband is the only teammate you can trust. Your wife is like your sword; an extension of your arm and the only defense standing between you and your enemies. You lose that and it's only a matter of time before you lose everything else. Suddenly, the mortality of your life seems frighteningly real.

At his brother's wake, he watches Rhagia, his sister-in-law of three years, struggle with this same reality. Except she is alone at twenty-one with at least fifteen more years to fight through. Probably more. Because although Rhagia works at the quarry, her nails aren't cracked, her skin isn't darkened by a layer of stone dust. She inspects and repairs the machinery. Every wheel, every pulley and pipe. She has made up names for each scaffolding rig. Before he died, Caemon used to joke that her mind itself was made of gears. Instead of blood, her body ran on oil.

Cato still remembers the way his brother would lose focus at the Training Center just to watch her. It was annoying then, when all Cato wanted to do was lift weights and spar. That hasn't changed. But he can remember when life in the training center had kept Rhagia strong. Her skin had been healthy, vibrant even. Her eyes had been alert and happy. If he tries hard enough he can remember the sound of her laugh when she would knock her sparring partner to the ground or ace a new martial arts move. He remembers respecting her.

But here at Caemon's wake, he sees for the first time what life after training has done to her. Locked away at the Center, Cato rarely visits his own family. It's a system designed to help him focus. To ensure that he doesn't have to trouble himself with anything beyond his own existence. And it works. But it makes moments such as this confusing. Who is this frail, bug-eyed girl before him now? Where there was once a tall, proud trainee, now there is only a tired, too-thin widow who is trying not cry. Her lip gives a slight tremble here and there. Her eyes look glassy, too large for the fine features that have sunken in the absence of the Center's nutrient rich food. Even now she barely has the grain for finger cakes at the wake. There is plenty of tea, though. But Cato hates tea.

For once, he feels torn. Typically nothing can keep his focus away from training. Tragedy, anger, frustration. These things only fuel his drive to push weights, run the track or swing a sword. But there's something actually quite interesting about watching Rhagia in her attempts not to cry. He thinks, _she looks so tormented and weak. She'll have to break sometime. She'll have to. _He decides that he'll leave when he wins that bet. At the first signs of tears, he's out of there.

But it never comes. She bites her lip or clenches her jaw. But the crown of grace never slips. Her strength only falters, it never gives way. So, in stubbornness, he's stuck there. Wearing stuffy, warm clothes and an irritating necktie. Daydreaming of a new arm rotation he's been practicing while sparring. Trying to reconcile how death could break someone apart. First his mother. Now Rhagia. All of his surviving aunts and uncles. Even a few crew members who'd worked on the same rig as Caemon. Why is everyone so fucking sad? Was Caemon so incredible of a human being? What the hell did he ever actually accomplish? What made him so damn special?…If Cato died…would they weep as hard for him?

He turns his head to hide the smirk that tugs at his lips. Someone would have to kill him first. And that's not going to happen anytime soon. There's no one at the Center higher on the depth chart. And it's not as if he's going to die in the quarry. No. he's been fated for the Games since he was conceived. He's going to go. And he's going to win. And he'll never work a day in his life.

Before he even realizes it, the wake is over. Echo cries as she presses goodbye kisses to Rhagia's cheeks. Promises over and over again that if there's anything the young widow needs, the Travertine's are her family. Cato has to wonder if she'd be falling all over herself with the same declarations had she not been widowed herself just two years earlier. Either way, Echo can't bring herself to look at her only remaining son on her way out. He bears too much resemblance to his brother. Just seeing his golden hair out of the corner of her eye is like a stab to the chest. He does not reach out to her. It never really occurs to him to do so. He stays near the windows, hands in his pockets, watching the sun shine on the creek below the ridge Caemon built his house on.

Rhagia can only assume she's finally alone, that Echo's son followed her out the door. Her hands shake as she starts to clean up. Her lower lip trembles hard. Her throat is tight. Her eyes burn. Before half the table can be cleared, she's finally broken down and sobbing. Her knees give out and she probably would have snapped her ankle on the way down had Cato not appeared to catch her. She doesn't question why he's there. Just lets her fingers curl around his suit jacket, her tears stain the white material of his button-down shirt.

As he straitens his back to pull her up to her feet again, he keeps her close. His brows furrow as he rests his nose in her hair and breathes. His eyes close and he realizes…he's never _held_ anything before. His hands have crushed windpipes, his arms have swung axes, his body is a machine of hurt and destruction. But he sees for the first time that strength can keep something together too, can keep someone standing.

He's not exactly sure what he's supposed to do right now. And he desperately wants her to stop crying, because it's making him painfully uncomfortable. But every time the words try to form in his throat, all he can do is swallow them. _God, just please calm down. Stop crying. It's okay. Why are you so upset? You're okay. _Sighing softly, he resigns himself to silence and lets his arms tighten around her. He's not sure why but one of his hands starts to drag up and down her spine.

Eventually her breathing evens out and the sobs quiet down to sniffling. Still, neither of them move. Rhagia knows it's wrong but Cato is almost the same height as his brother. His arms are as strong as Caemon's had been when they'd first made love. He even _smells_ the same. It's so easy to pretend when they're standing like this, her eyes hiding against his shirt, arms folded to his chest. She wishes she could speak. But there's really nothing that makes enough sense to say. The truth is, she doesn't even know how she feels. Is she angry at Caemon for leaving her alone? Is she terrified to _be_ alone? Is she just exhausted? She doesn't want to try and sort it all out now. She just wants to stand like this with warm, strong arms keeping her from falling to the ground in a pathetic heap.

Time starts to unravel. She has no idea how long they stand there. Minutes. Hours. Centuries. It's a wonderful feeling, losing touch with reality. It numbs her anxiety. It helps her stop caring about…anything beyond Cato's arms. _Caemon's arms_, she lies to herself.

He has to shift his weight to keep his feet from falling asleep, but this isn't so terrible really. He sort of…likes the way it feels, holding something. Especially now that it's stopped crying. His hand continues its path up and down her spine, occasionally brushing through her hair. Part of him wants to thank her for not speaking, but he'd hate to break the silence.

Cato has been trained to master many parts of himself. But restraint really isn't one of those things. When his mouth feels the urge to kiss a soft path down her hair and over her neck, he sees no reason to stop himself. He doesn't need a reason to justify himself. He just does it. That's how his life has always been. Impulse. Action. Satisfaction.

_I should stop him. _The thought hangs half-heartedly in Rhagia's mind as her lips part in surprise. A moment later she tilts her head a bit to give him better access to her neck, lets one of her hands drag up his chest, her knuckles brushing his throat. A soft sigh falls from her lips and her brows pull together as his teeth drag over her skin in reaction. Fingers brushing down again, she starts to tug at his tie.

She honestly doesn't remember their path from the living room to the bedroom but it seems that within seconds she's under him, her dress on the floor. His mouth is like fire on hers. Demanding, moving almost faster than she can keep up with, scorching her without remorse. His palms drift up her arms as he pushes them down by her head, fingers curling between hers as he keeps her hands pressed into the bed. His lips are everywhere at once. Biting, sucking, teeth dragging. He's rougher than Caemon ever was. But she can't bring herself to ask for gentle.

Head digging back, she lets out a soft cry when he pushes inside of her, pulling one of her thighs tight around his hips as he rocks his body into hers. Her free arm curls around his neck and their mouths bruise a little as they kiss hard. He stays deep but thrusts hard. Before she's even aware that he's rubbing off on her, Rhagia is biting into his lip in retaliation. She trails off, nipping and kissing along his shoulder. Her nails dig into his back, dragging up his spine. The pain is delicious and he moves faster, harder, hoping she'll give him more.

There's barely any noise between them. Just the heavy breath that mingles together. The sweat. The occasional grunt or soft cry. Cato's jaw clenches as he gets close. He's struggling to stay above the surface, but it's hard. Sex is usually so carelessly taken and consumed for him. Like a meal easily found and easily forgotten. Something about this is different. This doesn't even feel like sex. Not the way he knows it. Maybe it's her grief and how vulnerable it's made her. Maybe it's the respect he always had for her at the Center. Maybe it's the shared tragedy between them. Whatever it is, it keeps him in bed with her after he comes. His arms and legs tangle with hers, their sweat and cum stains the sheets.

The sun is just starting to set over the creek as they fall into a comfortable silence. Rhagia strokes her fingers through his thick, blonde hair. Brushes a kiss here and there as he nuzzles her collarbone, already half asleep. _I love you_, _Caemon,_ she whispers in her mind.


	2. Part Two

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**II**  
Part Two

_He's as damned as he seems, he's strong is what I believe  
__A tragedy with more damage than a soul should see  
__He's never enough and still he's more than I can take  
__He's such a beautiful disaster_

When she wakes, it's to a tangle of dirty sheets and empty bed. A scribbled note lays on Caemon's side of the mattress.

_Had to go to training -Cato_

It's probably the closest they'll ever get to talking about the night before. To be honest, Rhagia is just fine with that. She holds nothing against Cato, but the thought of betraying her husband so soon after his death makes her sick. She can almost hear his ghost haunting her now. _Did I mean so little to you? Was I so easy to forget? How long have you had eyes for my little brother? _Crumpling the note up, she tosses it in the trash and gets up so she can strip the bed. She ignores the soreness between her legs. It's almost nice to feel pain as she used to. It was such a familiar friend every morning at the Training Center for twelve long years. She realizes now that she misses pain. The sting of a cut. The ache of a bruise. The tenderness of muscles overextended.

Rhagia has often wished she could go back to those days. Living with her fellow trainees, the reverence of the community at their feet, the Capitol showering them with gifts for every accomplishment. It's a hard pedestal to fall from and she often wonders if her identity will always be caught up in something she is no longer truly a part of. In the youth she no longer has.

Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she's forced to admit to herself that she'd be embarrassed to walk into the Center today. So pathetically thin and frail. She can't even remember the last time she stretched. Can she still back flip three times in a row? Would her high kicks still knock a grown man to the floor? Would her sinewy arms still be able to wrestle an enemy down? She knows the answers already, but she can't even voice them in her own head. It would be voicing the loss of herself.

* * *

"Get your head out of your ass or get out of my gym!" Ravine screams loud enough for the whole room to hear her before she blows her whistle. Cato sighs heavily, heading back to his corner of the sparring mats. He grabs some water and wipes the sweat off his forehead. _The hell is wrong with you today? _He asks himself, disgusted with how off beat his rhythm is.

He's been sparring for an hour and hasn't come out on top once. Even his trainers are getting fed up with him. The frustration boils inside of him until he's sure he'll burst. Throwing his towel down hard, he kicks his water bottle hard enough to make it hit the far wall. Moments later he's facing his next opponent. Ravine herself has rolled up her sleeves and gotten onto the mats. She's shorter than Cato, but she's quick. And she's strong.

In seconds she's darted around him, jumped up onto his back and curled her arm around his neck in a headlock. Choking, he rolls them both onto their backs, easily knocking the air from her lungs. But when he gets her pinned down, her dark hair and smaller frame make his mind flash back to the night before and his focus is gone. Before he even realizes what's happening, he's the one on his back and Ravine has her boot pressed hard against windpipe. He tries to get up and she presses harder.

"Keep it up, Travertine. You'll be going to bed hungry tonight. Or worse." She growls angrily, a droplet of sweat rolling down her temple. The toe of her boot shoves down extra hard for a moment before she's moved on, ordering Cato to the locker room. He's on laundry duty. And he's furious.

It takes exactly three minutes and twelve seconds for the locker room to get torn apart. Detergent splashes on the floor. Shower curtains are torn down. Trash cans get kicked over. It isn't until he's standing in the middle of the mess, red faced and panting, that a truth dawns on him. He's not just angry about performing like a twelve-year old girl today. He's fucking pissed off at everything.

The quarry. His mother. His father. The Center. Fucking Ravine. Caemon. Stupid, skinny, beautiful, soft, weak Rhagia who cries too much. Himself. Leaning back against a locker, Cato slumps down to the floor. Surveys the room with little regard for the wreck someone else is going to have to clean up. For the first time in his life, he feels trapped here. He doesn't want to be here. The forest, the creek, up into town, maybe down by Caemon's house. But not here. He doesn't want to follow his training schedule. He wants to kick down the doors and run out. Go wherever he feels like going. But freedom isn't an option. Not until he wins the damn Games.

So he stays there on the floor, staring at the locker room for a while, before getting up and doing the fucking laundry.

* * *

Clove finally surpasses Cato on the depth chart and for the first time in two months she cracks a smile. All week long she's been scoring higher in weaponry, simulations and hand-to-hand combat. She may not be as tall or muscular as the boys, but she's smart. Quick. Agile. Cunning. Ruthless. She's been pouring her blood, sweat and even tears into her training for years now.

Ravine can't say she isn't a little disappointed in Cato. He's been the Center's pride and joy ever since Caemon graduated. But she's happy. Clove moving to number one sends two messages. First, it ensures that Cato's loss of focus lately is loudly and clearly punished. That everyone understands: they better not slip up for a second. That this will result in failure once in the arena. Shame on District 2. Lower funds to the Center. These are not options.

More importantly it reminds the trainees that brute strength isn't always the best weapon. Ravine herself won the games just over a decade ago. She was neither tall nor exceptionally muscular. The curse of a woman's body. Too often the world around her seems to forget that women should be feared too. That they can be brutal and fearless and strong. She sees that strength in Clove. The iron in her spine that refuses to break. The salt water of the sea that flows and adapts. The darkness in her eyes that doesn't let anyone in. Doesn't let anyone shake her, not for a second. And that is her advantage over Cato.

He's too emotional. He wastes time and energy giving in to anger and frustration, where Clove just adapts. Many of the other trainers like to play this up. Anger can make wrath, wrath can so easily make death. But Ravine has been in the arena. She knows it isn't always that simple.

When she submits the depth chart into the computers that night, the odds of favor change for the first time in what seems like an era of tall, blonde, over muscular men. If the Reaping were to be held that evening, Cato would still be taken as tribute. But so would Clove. And Ravine's money would be on the girl.

* * *

Cato tries and tries and _tries_ to get his shit together, but it's as if some higher power is simply against him. When Clove's name moves up on the chart, he snaps. Walks rights out of the Center. As long as he's put in his hours for the day and doesn't wander too far, he's allowed to leave. They have a tracker in him anyway, so what do they care? It's healthy for the trainees to get out into the fresh air now and then. Take a walk. Clear their minds. Kick stray dogs down the side of a hill. Terrorize a few children who are out too late.

He smirks as he walks away with one little girl's candy bracelet. _Which is sweeter_, he asks himself as he breaks off a piece in his mouth, _the sugar or the screams? _The bracelet is only half done when he reaches the creek. He hadn't even been conscious of his footsteps leading him here. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he's not surprised.

Rhagia sits on the back porch steps in a thin house dress. The cool air is a relief from the blazing sun that had torn through the quarry that day. The breeze flutters through the material of her dress, so much lighter and easier to wear than her heavy engineer's uniform. A few moths flutter around her lit oil lamps. If she didn't prefer the softness of natural light, she could turn on the flood lights that Caemon put up last year. Power rarely goes out in District 2, even out here by the Sway, where the suburbs trail off into the backwoods and creeks, the mountains and lakes. Through the trees she can see the gentle flicker of other oil lamps. Hung off back porches or flickering in windows. The moonlight breaks into sharp slivers of light over the black water. A gentle wind rustles the leaves of the bushes, the reeds down by the bank. And still, she sees him. Hears him. Feels his presence moving through the dark.

Although which 'him' is lost to her at first. His movements are so fluid, his shadow so silent, he could be a ghost. And indeed, at first glance, she takes him for one. Her eyes brighten and a smile pulls at her lips. Even corporeal and dead, her heart thrills to see Caemon. But a moment later he's smiling back, stepping into the moonlight on his way up the sloping ridge. It's not him at all.

The same DNA. The same small but beautifully curved mouth. The same cheekbones. The same shoulders. The same smoldering arrogance hidden behind dimples and a smooth voice. But life after the Center and a few hard years at the quarry had broken Caemon's strut. Dulled the brightness in his impossibly blue eyes. Caemon had learned what it was to struggle. To sacrifice. To be tired of life. Cato was ignorant to such privileges. The vibrancy of his energy shone around him like some tragic light unaware of its own glare.

Her eyebrows raise a bit at the small cuts all over his skin. There's a thick bandage on his left forearm, a tiny streak of red staining the surface. Head tilting back a bit, she finds his eyes.

"You look like you got into a fight." For all the amusement underscoring her fatigue, she almost doesn't recognize her own voice. It's been a long week at the quarry. Without Caemon standing guard over her the men, and even many of the women, have made the simple walk to and from work a war zone. She must constantly have her defenses up, a knife ever sharpened in her boot.

Cato glances down, having forgotten the deep gash already. What little pain remains tastes even better than the candy on the bracelet still between his fingers. He shrugs, shifting his weight, smirking a bit. Every day is a fight at the Center. Rhagia knows that.

"I won." He assures her. And technically, it's true. He _did_ win. Once or twice.

Amused by his priorities, she chuckles softly. She remembers what it was like. The attitude. The confidence. Feeling as if it's you against the world- and you kind of feel sorry for the world.

"Well, I guess you deserve a drink then." She's too tired to fight her own emotions. If he's here, he wants to come in…so why not just let him? Why not welcome the inevitable? Why not give in and let herself pretend for a while? The only people she could hurt are dead.

He tugs on his lip, knowing there are too many carbohydrates in alcohol than his rigid diet allows for. But a moment later he's nodding. The truth is, he didn't even mean to end up here. Didn't plan on walking up the ridge. Wasn't supposed to go inside again. Sleeping with her once screwed up his life enough. Was he really so stupid as to let his emotions trap him again?

A moment later, Rhagia stands from the steps so he can pass. As she holds the door open and he passes, she catches the scent of Caemon on the gentle breeze.

* * *

Everything under his skin keeps telling him to go. He wants to go. But no matter what his brain screams, his body won't move. He shivers a bit when, after a long silence, Rhagia's cold fingertips trace a scar that runs parallel to his spine.

"How did you get this?" She murmurs quietly, pressing a few lazy kisses to the marred skin. Eyes falling closed, he tugs her hand away from the scar, pulls her arm around his ribs, holds her fingers together firmly with his.

"Shh…go to sleep."

Rhagia knows she shouldn't be surprised. She has no right to be disappointed. There is no part of him that she can lay claim to. Even when he's with her, she pretends he's someone else. But it's no use trying to pretend when he can't spoil her like Caemon did. Always opening up so readily, if only for his wife. Ever happy to give her anything and everything and all of himself.

It'd be easier if he wouldn't stay after. If he didn't seem to need to hold her or lay in her bed for reasons that surpass the brief moments they spend fucking. Then she wouldn't suspect that any waters were rippling under his surface. But he does stay. And he does reach out for her and he always looks so desperate in his sleep. For a mother. For trust. For a crutch. For a drug to block everything out. For a place to hide.

She wonders if he's ever really been held. Knows the answer already. The mothers in District 2 don't coddle their children. What would be the point? They're snatched away by the Center so soon and turned against their families within months. Turned inward on themselves. No support beams. No nets to catch them. You win by yourself. You fail all alone. You live and you die and you suffer and you bleed and you triumph alone.

When does it become too much? When does Atlas finally shrug his shoulders?

Her forehead rests against his spine and she thinks,_ The saddest part is…he doesn't even realize he's breaking_


End file.
